


Manufactured in a Facility That Also Processes Food

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Junk Food - Freeform, and so is junk food, tim and jason's relationship is very important to me okay, weird families bonding weirdly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 22:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12803826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Jason walks closer to the couch, says slowly, “Babybird. I have literally seen you refuse fruit juice because of the sugar content. Last week, I saw you eat a whole bowl of celery and baby carrots without dressing. And now… now…” Jason snatches up the violently-orange bag from Tim, says, “ ‘Cheezybits’? You know this isn’t legally food, right?”





	Manufactured in a Facility That Also Processes Food

“Are you serious right now,” says Jason, not a question. He’s standing in the doorway to Tim’s apartment, half-out of his jacket. He kicks the door shut behind him, tosses his jacket over the end of the couch. Takes his gun from his waistband and drops it to the kitchen counter.

Tim looks up at him, brow furrowed. He’s sunken into his fancy couch, his feet folded up beneath him; dozens of files are fanned out around him, littering the coffee-table, the sofa, Tim’s lap and the floor. “No guns on the counter,” he says, after a moment. Automatic. And then, brain catching up to his ears, he says “Serious… about what?”

Jason  _feels_ his eyebrows hit his hairline. Eyes the super-sized bag jammed between Tim and a couch cushion. 

And Tim just looks at him with open confusion. Even though it’s the middle of the day, the kid’s in pyjama pants and a flannel shirt worn open over a  **Geology Rocks**  t-shirt. Like. What a nerd.

Jason walks closer to the couch, says slowly, “Babybird. I have literally seen you refuse  _fruit juice_ because of the sugar content. Last week, I saw you eat a whole bowl of celery and baby carrots  _without dressing_. And now…  _now_ …” Jason snatches up the violently-orange bag from Tim, says, “ ‘Cheezybits’? You know this isn’t legally food, right?”

“Gimme those, Jason,” Tim says, and Jason says,

“Seriously. Did you notice at the grocery store that these aren’t in the food aisle?” He peeps in the top of the bag and makes a face, says, “The food colouring  _alone_ , Tim… nothing on earth is supposed to be this colour.”

“I have seen you eat  _so much worse_ ,” and the kid’s getting annoyed now, an edge in his tone that wasn’t there a minute ago. He also sits up straighter, feet on the floor instead of beneath him. “You think all that fried junk you eat is any better?”

Jason waves a hand at him to shut him up, reading the back of the bag. “Are they allowed to call this ‘nutrition information’, d’you think? Like. There’s not even any nutrition in here, you’d be better off eating dish soap. Surely there are consumer laws against this kind of thing.”

“Big words coming from a guy who ate 11 expired Twinkies in a row on a  _dare_ ,” Tim snipes–

“Dickie-bird ate nine, what was I  _supposed_ to do? Lose the bet?” 

“Yes!” Tim says. “I was there, and neither one of you was a winner in that exchange.” 

Jason remembers, cringing. The kid is not wrong.

“And hey,” Tim says, suddenly, like he can’t believe he didn’t open with this. Face scrunching up in annoyance. “I didn’t say you could come in.”

“I’m not a fuckin’ vampire, Tim,” Jason tells him, rolling his eyes. And he flops down on the couch beside the kid, upending a small mountain of paperwork with his butt. 

The babybird doesn’t seem to mind, though, just makes grabby-hands at the Cheezybits until Jason tosses them over. 

Tim settles back against the couch, dwarfed by the size of the damn bag, and says, “They’re tasty.” tossing back a handful of orange… lumps, and crunching down on them with a vaguely satisfied noise.

“You’d hope so,” Jason says. Mutters, loud enough Tim can  _definitely_ hear him, “All that effort tryin’ to kill you. To think all I had to do was give you a couple bags of these and watch them do their job.”

Tim kicks him in the shin, but not hard. Says, “Why are you in my apartment at 1 o’clock on a Tuesday?” 

“Casing the joint,” Jason says, and Tim kicks him again. Jason just laughs, opens his mouth to explain that again, he was coming to use Tim’s backdoor into the Batcomputer, (and probably scout out anything good in the fridge, but that part was implied), but– “Oh my  _God_ –” he grabs Tim’s wrist, yanks it close to his face–

Tim allows it but just barely, looks severely unimpressed and vaguely suspicious. He’s quickly losing patience when Jason says, “Look at this,” and waves Tim’s orange-coated hand in his own face, “Do you see this neon orange powder shit? That is just. So disgusting. Possibly permanent. I can’t believe the Gotham media thinks you’re classy.”

“I  _am_ classy,” Tim says, pyjama pants and hand-ruffled hair, a little imitation cheese dust on his nose. Twisting his hand out of Jason’s grip, looking over a thick folder again, “And chilli dogs look like vomit on a hotdog, so.” 

“Jesus Chri– is that  _cheese shit_ on your paperwork?” And now that Jason’s looking for it, there are little orange finger-smears on an awful lot of the folders spread around. “Aren’t some of these files for  _B_?”

“I scan them,” Tim says crossly. “And I photo-edit out the Cheezybits.”

There is a pause, in which Jason considers this. Then, “ _You’ve done this before_?”

“With pizza grease,” Tim allows. “Oh, and coffee spills. Obviously. And once my chow mien–”

“What does Alfred think of your godawful eating habits?” Jason interrupts. “Does he know?”

“No,” Tim says, absently. Reading his files. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

And Jason gets the pleasure of watching the realisation slowly dawn on the Replacement’s face, the flash of panic that’s quickly hidden between his usual mask of Bat-indifference. 

The kid sits up straighter, trying for casual, “You’re. You wouldn’t blackmail me, right?”

“Babybird,” Jay says, slow, relishing it. Slinging an arm over Tim’s tension-stiff shoulders. “If you gotta ask, I think you  _know_ the answer.”

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Why yes, the title is a 30 Rock reference.
> 
> This dumb drabble and more like it can be found on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/97893876125/manufactured-in-a-facility-that-also-processes)


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